Mycroft's Tattoos
by ko-writes
Summary: Mycroft accumulated some tattoos in his younger years. Although they are now all hidden under those three piece suits of his, but he remembers the story behind each one. Some good, some bad. TW: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Abuse, Withdrawal, Brief mention of suicidal thoughts and depression.


He guessed it had started when he was still fairly young, twelve or thirteen years old maybe.

Sherlock was a fan of drawing when he was a toddler and, rather than letting him draw on the walls (the child refused paper), he encouraged Sherlock to draw on him instead. He found the drawings childish at first; but as Sherlock's ability increased, he found that he enjoyed the decorations on his skin. He marvelled at how the inks looked, blending into the skin.

_ Fifteen year old Mycroft smiled at the new drawing on his arm. Sherlock had been studying Incan culture and wanted to copy the sun tattoo he'd seen. "This is very good, Sherlock; very precise and I love the design," he smiled._

_ "Thank you, My!" Five year old Sherlock smiled, gap-toothed, and ran off to do something else. _

_ Mycroft rolled his eyes fondly, "Careful!"_

He got a tattoo as soon as he was at the legal age; a fluttering Union Jack on his left bicep. It was a bit patriotic, he told himself, but it was good.

The process was a little painful, but it could hardly be helped. Overall, he enjoyed the experience.

_"Let me see, let me see!" Sherlock pleaded._

_ Mycroft smiled as he pulled down the slightly bloody gauze. _

_ Sherlock gasped. "That's amazing!"_

_ "Thank you."_

_ "I want to get one with the Jolly Rodger!" Sherlock announced._

_ "In ten years you can, but for now I have a permanent marker…"_

His second was a reconstruction of the Incan sun Sherlock had drawn, he even got Sherlock to redraw it; it looked perfect on his shoulder blade.

_ "You really did it?!" Sherlock gasped._

_ "Yes, brother mine," he grinned, "It's on my shoulder blade."_

The third one, if he was honest, was a drunken mistake. He had gone on yet another bender with his 'friends' – his relationship with alcohol being a little less than healthy.

It was a tea cup and a slice of Victoria Sponge Cake with the words "I'll Be Mother" tattooed in an arch above; on his left calf. That's when he'd counted how many drinking binges he'd had in recent months; and grimaced. That number couldn't be right. He decided to quit drinking after that.

_ "I'll be mother…" Mycroft offered as he poured the tea._

_ "And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell," Sherlock stated, a barb at that time disguised by a different barb. He had been so understanding, at one time…_

He and Sherlock had decided enough was enough and were getting out of their separate addictions at around the same time.

Mycroft didn't realise how much – and how often – he drank on a day-to-day basis until about seven hours after he'd started to detox. His hands were shaky; he was sweating, vomiting; he had a pounding headache; and he just couldn't get to sleep.

Sherlock wasn't much better at that point. He was agitated and restless, depressed, fatigue, eating as often as he could; had a feeling of malaise; he had vivid nightmares; and his movements were slowed, if he could bring himself to move.

_ They were now locked in Mycroft's bathroom together; thanks to a tired PA and a less-than-sympathetic DI. _

_ Mycroft was gripping the sides of the toilet with an iron hold. He retching was painful and his vomit acidic. "Shit," He gasped._

_ "Oh, shut the fucking hell up," Sherlock groaned around a chocolate bar._

_ "You should stop stuffing your fucking mouth!"_

_ "So should you!"_

_ Around the fifteen hour mark; Sherlock was a sobbing mess, vomiting also; Mycroft was desperately trying to brush the ants he could feel and see crawl over his skin. _

_ "They won't get off, Sherlock!" He panicked._

_ Sherlock sniffed and swallowed thickly, "They… They aren't real, Mycroft…" Sherlock tried to comfort with his broken baritone._

_ "No… I can see them! I can feel them!"_

_ Sherlock couldn't help the sob that escaped his lips. _

_ A full twenty four hours later; Sherlock was shaking violently, mumbling incoherently and his appetite had flat-lined; Mycroft was trying to focus on something other than the rising panic and pain he could feel in his chest and tried to stop hyperventilating._

_ "Need it…" Sherlock mumbled._

_ "Wha-what?" Mycroft stuttered._

_ "I need it Mycroft! Look at me! Need it! Lestrade can keep his bloody cases, maybe I should just take an overdose and end it all!" Sherlock yelled, hands digging into his hair and yanking on curls. "It'd be so quiet…"_

_ Mycroft could barely breathe. "D-don't Sh-Sherlock. We… We'll get th-through this…"_

_ "Myc?" Sherlock asked in another broken croak. _

_ "Sh-Sh-Sherlock… I-I may b-be having a-a-a p-panic a-attack…"_

_ " Oh God!" Sherlock banged on the door, "Lestrade! Harvey! Myc's having a panic attack!"_

Six months later, they were both clean. Sherlock still had dark moods and thoughts and cravings; but he was coping well, considering. Mycroft decided to celebrate with another tattoo, on his chest, to commemorate his success; but not just his, Sherlock was going to get his first tattoo.

_ A woman with died black hair and several visible tattoos smiled at them as they entered the tattoo parlour, "I'm guessing you guys are here for your first tat –"_

_ "Let me stop you there," Mycroft interrupted, "It is my fourth tattoo and my brother's first. Please don't make assumptions. We have a design sketch, but it needs to be neatened up a little…"_

_ The tattooist nodded silently; Sherlock handed over his sketch pad. She took a look and whistled, "This is good."_

_ "Thanks," Sherlock nodded. _

_ "_You _did this?" She asked incredulously. _

_ "Excuse you!" Sherlock huffed, "I've been drawing on Mycroft since I was three!"_

_ "Ok, Ok," She dismissed, "I'll get this drawn out, take a seat."_

_ "Thank you, Miss…"_

_ "Harry, Harry Watson; don't call me miss." _

_ Mycroft and Sherlock took their seats._

_Harry applied the temporary outline to Mycroft's chest. "I have a feeling there's a story behind this…" she smiled._

_ "Nothing we have to tell you," Sherlock huffed as he stared at the outline on his thigh, making sure he was one hundred percent happy with the positioning._

_ "Quite right," Mycroft added._

_ "Sorry, I'm just a bit too nosey for my own good," she shrugged as Mycroft lay on the table and she started the buzzing needle._

_ Sherlock hissed when he touched the slightly bloody gauze. "When will it stop stinging?"_

_ "In a few days, don't worry," Mycroft answered before Harry had a chance._

_ "I am suddenly very glad I didn't get it on my back…" Sherlock admitted._

_ "See? Sometimes it's good to listen to me," Mycroft smirked._

_ Sherlock rolled his eyes and Harry let a small giggle past her lips. Mycroft and Sherlock each raised a questioning eyebrow._

_ "Sorry, me and my brother are exactly the same. Now, if you'd come to the till…" _

He thought that would be the last tattoo he'd get; but a month after Sherlock 'died' he found himself sitting on the table, the needle buzzing; having a single, broken angle wing on half his back. As the needle made its first contact, he wished his brother luck.


End file.
